Summary

Burrowing into a soft pillow, his skin screams in protest at the drag of his clothes shifting against his skin. He goes still, willing his body to obey the voice. Sleep; he needs sleep now more than he needs air. Still, something niggles at the back of his mind.

“Hank?” His voice sounds disturbingly weak and his heart begins to pound in time with his throbbing head.

“I’m right here,” his partner answers, pressing a gentle hand to Connor’s forehead. “One-hundred and three point five.” The hand pulls back and Connor can see it glow through his closed eyelids. Cracking open one watery eye, he sees Hank’s synthetic skin close over luminescent fingers.

If Hank is with him, he must be safe. It’s a simple truth that Connor doesn’t dispute.

Summary

If Connor heard it, he gives no inclination. “Josh!” He barks the name, head swiveling in search of its owner. Spying him near the bow of the ship, he nods his head to his rear left, “Man the rudder.”

“Stop! You can’t—,” Markus’ free fist comes down hard at the base of Henry’s spine, dropping him to his knees.

Weathered leather boots swim into his vision. Connor’s voice rains down on him from above, “I think you will find, Lord Henry, that I can. You can either walk on ship or be dragged. The choice is yours.”

Summary

Connor flopped comically to the floor when Hank called it for that day’s workout, “You are evil.”

Hank’s head popped into his field of vision, peering down at him, “Am I now?”

Connor nodded, “I’m not going to be able to move tomorrow.”

“Kid, you’re gonna be feeling it for a week.” Connor’s grumpy retort died in his throat when Hank held out a helping hand and offered him a wink, “I have that kind of effect on people.”

Connor had been immensely glad his face was already red from exercising. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if Hank was hitting on him. Then again, Hank had a reputation for being a massive flirt. When his own relationship with Markus had taken a rocky turn, he didn’t have the time to dwell on it.

Hand-in-hand with Hank now, pretending as if he’s his date, proves to be a terrible time for the memory to wriggle loose and run rampant in his brain.

__

A little follower appreciation ficlet for a fake dating/relationship trope prompt. I meant for this to be a lot shorter, buuuuut I got carried away. It was such a cute idea :)

Summary

“Mr. Kamski is more than happy to keep you here at the company. Personal issues aside, you two do great work.”

“Personal issues?” Connor parrots, sarcasm heavy on his lips, “How can he expect me to be in the same room with him much less work with him after…,” his hand circles in the air in front of him trying to conjure a work-place appropriate term for what had passed between them.

Amanda’s sharp voice cleaves his attempt in half, “You could try to grow up.” As was always the case, Amanda makes Connor feel smaller than a crumb dropped from a stale loaf of bread.

--

Connor made the somewhat catastrophic mistake of bedding his boss. When unforeseen consequences leave him without a job and unable to work in his field, he turns to a new project with lucrative potential--restoring old homes. Having no renovation experience, Connor seeks the aid of an experienced contractor. There is no way this idea could go south, right?

Summary

Hank awakes to the smell of frying bacon and eggs as dust motes dance in the sunbeams promising another beautiful day for his and Connor’s staycation. His feet hit the warm wooden boards already bathed in sunlight. Stretching and groaning like a Peterbilt 389 spluttering to life, his back only pops once. Heaving himself off the mattress, he lets out a contented sigh. Connor moving in is more than agreeing with him.

__

Life with Connor is perfect. Unfortunately, perfection is held together with smoke and mirrors and questionable science ethics.

Summary

His mission had been clear: get the deviant leader in his sights and snipe it to end the revolution. But it'd all gone wrong.

Connor could feel the firm muscles of Hank’s thighs clenching down on his thin waist – tense enough to be ready for any attempt to escape, yet effortless, with the clear indication that he could remain like this for a long time if needed. His blue eyes were as sharp as ice, as hard, as cold.

Connor was trapped. He hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t expected this outcome.

Summary

Hank is going to die. He’s going to die right here in Kentucky, 53 years old, halfway to broke, and tragically sober. Survived only by a nine-year-old St. Bernard and the 31-year-old twink who delivered the fatal blow.

Tags

Summary

The picture attached is uncanny. In his uniform Connor looks different from the flirty little twink climbing all over Hank’s lap in a taxi ten years ago, and he’s certainly filled up a little, face a little less angular and more masculine now. Hank remembers those earnest brown eyes and those pink lips a little too well though. Even the fucking cowlick is still there.

And then Hank’s stomach rolls over when his brain truly catches up with what he just read - DOB August 1990.